


Sprout Wings

by ohmyfae



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Imperial Prompto, M/M, Mythology mixed with Magitech, Ravus gets a backstory ha ha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Ravus Nox Fleuret is responsible for escorting the prince of Niflheim to Insomnia to deliver the terms of a peace treaty. Both he and Prompto have been tasked with much during their time in the Empire, but it is Prompto, bound by magic and the Scourge, who may change the course of history with his defiant will.A mythology/magitech hybrid story about free will, survival, and sticking it to destiny.





	1. New Names

In the years that came before the fall, the Emperor of Niflheim announced, with much fanfare, that he had at last obtained a son. Not fathered, no, whispered the citizens of Gralea, who knew better. Obtained. The young boy had stood at his father’s side, smiled nervously into cameras, lent his cracking voice to the buzz of the radio. Then, some years later, just as his birthday had become a reason to pull up the blinds and extend the bar-crawlers’ happy hour to the early morning, he disappeared. The Emperor no longer spoke of him, and reporters, trained to value their survival above all else, did not ask. Yet the people of Niflheim passed down their own theories. All were spoken in hushed tones, whispered to fearful children and in the silence between radio broadcasts. None were ever fully believed. One was true.

The prince of Niflheim was a stolen child of Tenebrae. 

The prince of Niflheim was a puppet shaped of magic, soulless and forgotten. 

The prince of Niflheim died at thirteen.

The prince of Niflheim spoke prophecy, and was locked away where he could see no dark future, no endless war.

And now, six years later, the prince of Niflheim sat in the booth of a dining car, taking the south-bound train for Lucis. 

He was a pale young man, with light blonde hair swept over his eyes and black-rimmed glasses. His hands were rough, nails bitten to the quick, and when he tapped his foot against the leg of the table, the empty plate before him rattled and shook. 

“Stop that.”

“Sorry.” The prince turned violet-blue eyes to the man sitting before him. Captain Ravus Nox Fleuret, his uniform freshly pressed and dazzlingly white, looked more like a painting than a living person. He watched the grasses of Tenebrae disappear past the window, and for just a second, his jaw tensed and his hand clenched on the table.

“We can stop,” the prince said. Ravus did not respond. The prince drummed his fingers on the tabletop, and Ravus let out a _tch_ of disapproval that made the young man smile, lips tilting up at the corners. 

“Is it the glasses?” he asked. The captain kept his gaze firmly on the window. “Or the freckles? My _nose?_ Did I knock myself out on the way here and no one told me?”

“Your _Highness,_ ” Ravus said, through gritted teeth. 

“Prompto.” The prince jostled the table. “You don’t remember?”

The fields of Tenebrae gave way to a thick wall of trees, their canopies choking out all light below. They darkened the gloss of Ravus’ eyes, and he remained cool and silent as a stone column.

Prompto sat back.

“I remember _you._ ”

 

\---

 

Ravus was fifteen, and he hadn’t yet perfected the distant, superior look that would one day help him claw his way through the ranks of the Niflheim military. He was still weak, shaken by the annexation of his home and the loss of his title, and the only way to help his people—to become powerful enough within the conquering nation to protect them there—was a daunting chaos of snide remarks, barred doors, and a heartache he could never allow himself to feel. 

The day he met the prince, he was in the middle of the mindless task of clearing debris from the MT combat testing chamber. The boy who stopped at the open door was small for his age, with perfectly smooth hair, skin so unblemished he looked like a doll, and eyes that stared into the middle distance. He was standing at the side of the new chancellor, Izunia, who spoke to one of the research scientists in a bored drawl.

“…seem more human as he ages,” Izunia was saying. The boy blinked, jerkily, as though he wasn’t used to the action. “But the magic is sound. See for yourself. Prompto? Your Highness?” He addressed the boy in a silky tone, and the boy—Prompto—turned to him.

“Yes,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

“Stay here until we return.”

“Yes.”

Ardyn began to walk off, leading the scientist out of view. “And when we come back, there he’ll be. Truly a marvel, if I may spare a moment for vanity.”

Ravus leaned on the handle of his broom. The boy remained still, eyes forward, pale lips closed. Was he _breathing?_ He looked lost, as though he were waiting for the world around him to make sense, and Ravus remembered the distant gaze of his sister when he’d put on his uniform for the first time. He was leaving the castle that had become their prison to bind himself to a new set of captors, but all Luna saw was a young man who had been her brother, turning his back on his home. His people. 

He hadn’t spoken to her in a year.

“Excuse me,” Ravus said. 

The boy stayed where he was.

“Prompto?” Ravus set the broom on the floor, and slowly approached him. “That’s your name?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Ravus.” He reached the door. The boy was a few feet away from him, but his only movement was a quick flicker of the eyes. “They called you Your Highness.”

Silence.

Ravus tried for a smile, but he wasn’t sure he’d managed it right. The boy glanced his way again. “ _I_ used to be a prince, once.”

The boy did turn his head this time, and his brows moved, wrinkling. “I’m sorry,” he said. He lifted his arms, and long white sleeves slid back to reveal hands that were pale only to the wrist, after which fine lines cracked the surface, turning his skin a mottled mix of white, pale green, and vibrant yellow. A riot of flowers shifted under the thin membrane of his skin, and Ravus felt bile rise to the back of his throat. 

“I’m so sorry,” said the creature in the shape of a boy. “What were you before?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to focus more on the magical element of magitech, as well as a bit of what gave Ravus the impetus to continue on in the Imperial military for so long.   
> The title is inspired by a Mountain Goats song, because of course it is.


	2. Memory

When the first oak trees of Tenebrae were young, long before mortals brought axes, boots, and crowns to the high hills, the goddess of the dawn walked among them. Her sister, death, was a constant visitor to the woods, bringing her touch to the creatures that wove in the shadow of the trees, wading through leaves that collapsed with the rot of decay. Her breath was in the air even as pale green shoots burst through the earth, and the trees did not fear her.

The goddess of the dawn _was_ one to be feared. Where her fingers brushed bark and twig, great fonts of green life poured through them: Buds opened, burst with flower, died, budded, bloomed again. The branches of the oaks of Tenebrae rose high and desperate for the sun, curved under her palm, twisted at her passing. She left them changed, and when humans did come to Tenebrae, they left the oaks alone.

Then the Scourge came. The Scourge entered the woods in the shape of a man, well-dressed and broad-shouldered, carrying a bag that rustled with the soft shush of flowers and leaf-litter. He grasped at low-hanging branches and dragged loose fistfuls of oak blossom free, letting them drop into his bag. The man behind him did the same, but with more care, casting wary looks at the dark woods about him.

“Couldn’t we just grab a branch?” the man said. “The body will be more stable, that way.”

“It’s better if it’s something fragile,” said the Scourge. He rolled the beaded petals of the oak in his fingers, bruising them. “Something that won’t last beyond its intended purpose.” He smiled. “After all, the Emperor wants an _obedient_ son.”

Not long after, the Scourge left the trees, his man’s shape sauntering smoothly through the underbrush. In his arm hung a bag full of the blooms of meadowsweet, of oak and broom, flowers meant to lend themselves to the richness of the earth. He would shape them, twist their form into something he sought to control.

But the goddess’ hand had touched them long ago, and the trees remembered.

 

\---

 

"Lord Ravus?" 

Ravus woke in the dark of his quarters in the Imperial keep of Gralea, thrown from dreams of fire and ash into the scent of old iron. His breath made small clouds of steam in the air: While the former prince of Tenebrae was afforded the privilege of his own room, the Empire would be damned if they went out of their way to make it comfortable.

Only one man called him _Lord Ravus._ Lord, not prince, not highness. A demotion that fitted the disaster of the past year.

"Chancellor Izunia?" His room had no windows; Ravus checked his bedside clock, which showed the time to be a little after one in the morning. "Has there been an attack?"

"The prince requires your presence," called the voice from without. "Funny thing, that. However did he learn your name?"

Ravus shuddered at the memory of flower petals shifting under a thin membrane of skin. "Why? What does... he... need me for?"

"Can't sleep, poor thing," Ardyn said. "Now, don't presume that just because I'm being polite, I'm not giving you an order."

Ravus cursed under his breath and fumbled for his uniform. He was out the door in half a minute, tucking in his shirt as he pulled the door inwards, and was surprised to see the Chancellor still wore his everyday formalwear. Did _he_ ever sleep?

"Good boy," Izunia said. "Come along."

Ravus followed him down hallways he had no clearance to even look at, fitted with a polished metal made to look like stone. Laughter rang from a nearby room as they passed, and Ravus jumped. It had been so long since he'd heard that sound. He hoped the same wasn't true for Luna. 

Izunia stopped before a wide, open doorway, and gave a mocking bow. There was a light on by an enormous, thickly-curtained bed, and a small figure huddled up in the center of a mess of blankets. Fear warred with pity at the sight; Pity won out, and Ravus approached the boy slowly.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I didn't think they'd actually get you."

"Why did you call for me, then?"

The prince looked older, with a light cloud of freckles on his cheeks and a darker tinge to his hair. His arms, which slid in and out of view as he moved, still showed glimpses of the flowers beneath the skin, but it wasn’t as noticeable in the dark. Prompto talked differently, as well. Lighter. Faster. Almost human.

“I had to say something," he said. "They won't give me what I really want."

“Why…” Ravus looked to the open door of the prince’s bedroom, and the darker shadow that lay beside that of the door itself. “And what's that?"

“To go home." A look of true anguish crossed the prince's face, and years of duty as an older brother took over. Ravus sat on the edge of the bed and held out an arm. Prompto stared at it for a breathless moment before climbing into his hold, resting his head on Ravus' shoulder.

"Me, too," Ravus whispered, and lay a hand in Prompto's too-soft hair. 

 

\---

 

_Click._

_Click-click-click._

“Highness.”

_Shhhh. Click-click. Shhhh._

“Your. Highness.”

Prompto had his feet up on the other side of the booth in the dining car, and was fastidiously taking pictures of Ravus’ face with a handheld camera. Ravus could see it out of the corner of his eye, and a part of him—a small, pathetically _weak_ part, which he’d spent the last few years struggling to suppress—felt a twinge of familiarity there. Surely, Prompto wouldn’t have held on to the camera for _that_ long. It was just a trinket, something built to break down within a year. Rubber scraped at his hip, and Prompto’s boots retreated under the table.

“Ravus.”

A shadow fell over Ravus’ face. He wasn’t going to look. The shadow deepened, and he heard another click.

“Ravus Nox Fleuret!” Prompto said, loud enough for the few other passengers to hear. Dear gods, he was standing on his _seat._ “The guy who dared me to stuff eight grapes in my mouth at once! He sings oldies hits when he thinks no one’s listening! That isn’t his natural hair co—“

“Do _not,_ ” Ravus said, “start on the hair.”

And it was done.

He stared up into the eyes of Prompto Aldercapt, the prince of Nifhleim, and felt the reserves of his strength crumble with devastating ease.

Prompto had the same smile as before, if not a little more tilted at the corners. His freckles were darker, like he’d seen some sun in recent days, and he’d eschewed his Imperial robes for a red sleeveless vest. There was a black band around his right bicep, and Ravus could barely see the shadow of yellow and green at the edges, under the skin, but he looked… normal. Young.

“Got you,” Prompto said, and took a picture.

The train jostled along a curve in the track, and Prompto staggered into an uncoordinated collapse. He rolled to his knees in the aisle, and held up his hand in a dramatic supplication. "Thank you," he said. "I'll be here all day. Obviously."

Ravus rolled his eyes.

"I missed that," Prompto said. Ravus glared down at him. "Yeah, that too. Come on." 

His hand was still out, palm up. Ravus recalled his orders, the smug, ageless face of Ardyn Izunia, the distracted disinterest of the Emperor. Then he took Prompto's hand, felt the warmth of his fingers, and was undone a second time.

Prompto dragged him past the dining car to one of the viewing stations, where a sliding glass door opened to a balcony of sorts, overlooking the hills of Tenebrae. Prompto threw himself into the railing and let out a shout that was drowned in the screech of the wind. He saw Ravus watching and his smile faltered, just a little. 

"Ravus!" he shouted. Ravus stepped close, forming a tunnel against the wind. "We should stop here. Prince Noctis doesn't need me to bring him to Altissia. Let's just." He gripped the rail, and for a terrifying moment, Ravus feared he would try and jump. He held the younger man by the waist, tight. 

"Or we can keep going." Prompto was babbling, sliding his hands up Ravus' chest. "Drop Prince Noctis off, go to Gralea, live in the woods. I can support us with photography. You can glare small animals to death for dinner."

Ravus laughed despite himself. "It wouldn't work. Neither of us have the luxury of disobeying orders."

"Then order me not to."

"Not to what?" Ravus' hands tightened on Prompto's waist. "What _are_ your orders, Prompto?"

"Oh, you know," Prompto said. "Head to Altissia with the prince." He looked like he wanted to say more, but he turned to the country of Tenebrae giving way behind them, and closed his eyes to it. 

"Easy as that."


	3. First Meetings

King Regis Lucis Caelum leaned back on his throne, looking over the envoy from Niflheim with a critical eye.

Captain Ravus Nox Fleuret he knew. Poor, misguided Prince Ravus, falling into the arms of the Empire that had taken his mother. Regis burned with regret as he took in the line of Ravus’ shoulders, pulled taut with years of anxiety, his withdrawn face, so smooth and cold. Twelve years ago, he’d seen Ravus laughing with his sister in the gardens of Tenebrae. A somber child most of the time, but he softened around Luna and Noctis. If he weren’t such an unknown element now, Regis would consider letting his son meet him again.

In a more forgiving world, perhaps they could have.

The prince of Niflheim, if that title was to be believed, was even more of an unknown than Ravus. He wore an under robe in marbled red, embroidered with black roses the same shade as his dress pants. A white outer robe draped heavily over his shoulders, marked with red ribbon that formed a sunburst pattern along his upper chest and back, and his sleeves were tucked into black metal wrist guards. The robes were clearly unfamiliar to him: He kept tripping over them, and the back of his boots snagged on the hem. He gave Regis the impression of a person who knew the beat of the music but had never learned the steps. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, and bowed just a hair too deep. Regis barely inclined his head, and waited for the boy to continue.

And waited.

Uncomfortable laughter started to break out in the wings. The young man blushed crimson at his neck, and in pink patches over his cheeks and ears. He shifted from one foot to another.

“Um,” he said. His voice was swallowed by the crowded hall—No one had taught him how to project his voice properly. “H-hold on.” He dug into an inner pocket of his robes, and fished out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and peered at it intensely, biting at his lower lip.

Regis barely held down a grin as the young man began to read.

“My greetings to you, oh… oh your lo—your lord is wrong. Your Majesty, Regis Lucis Caelum. I am.” Captain Ravus took a step onto the dais behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The paper crumpled in the prince’s fist. “I’m Prompto. I’m the prince of Niflheim, but I guess you know that.”

Regis took pity on the boy and attempted a smile. The response was immediate. Prompto’s face lit up with an enthusiasm that seemed genuine—Gods, Regis had _heard_ of the prince being placed in hiding, but he wondered now just what that entailed. How desperate for affection must a child be to seek it in the face of an enemy king?

“My father sent me here to deliver a message, and to accompany _your_ son to Altissia for the wedding.”

“Wedding?” Regis asked. 

“Oh,” said Prompto. There was another outbreak of soft laughter. Ravus’ bland expression started to slip—Muscles twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Right. That’s part of the message. Dad said to tell you that Prince Noctis? Has to marry Princess Lunafre—“

Regis sat upright, alarmed not only by the prospect of _marriage_ but by the casual way the prince had used Lunafreya’s formal title. It was well known that those in power in Niflheim had banned the practice of referring to Ravus or Luna as anything but a Lord and Lady, respectively. For the prince to say it so freely was unusual at the least.

Ravus took this chance to move to Prompto’s side, one hand still on his shoulder. King Regis saw Prompto raise his hand to Ravus’ arm, then let it fall again. It seemed that the reclusive prince of Niflheim was a host of curiosities.

“Your Majesty,” Ravus said. “What his highness means to say is that we come bearing a message of peace from his Imperial Majesty, which he hopes will put an end to the war once and for all…”

 

\---

 

“I fucked it up,” Prompto whispered. He stood in the receiving room south of the throne, trying not to hyperventilate in full view of a crowd of watchful Crownsguard. Ravus hovered at his side, wearing that pinched expression that Prompto knew meant he was _right,_ but Ravus was trying to come up with a suitable lie to make him feel better about it. 

“It wouldn’t have gone well even if the chancellor himself were here to deliver the news.” Ravus twirled his finger, and Prompto obediently turned to face him. Ravus brushed Prompto’s hair from his eyes, just like he’d done when Prompto was newly made, but his touch was brisk now, his expression less pained. “I wonder if the Emperor didn’t send you here just to—“ He stopped, and his hand froze just above Prompto’s temple.

“It’s not like that,” Prompto said. He tilted his head into Ravus’ touch, and for half a second, Ravus allowed it. Then he pulled away, leaving Prompto empty. “I have to bring Prince Noctis to Princess L—“

“Don’t _call_ her that, Prompto.”

“I swore I would.” Prompto searched Ravus’ mismatched eyes. “I told you, I won’t let you forget.” Forgetting, in Prompto’s opinion, was the worst part of being human. Sometimes, he woke in the early hours of the morning with the feeling that there were ants in his skin, sap where his blood should be, the rustle of wings in his hair. Prompto’s dreams were thick with night birds and the rush of green life, but his waking hours were always spent trying to stumble his way through two worlds that could never quite align. And he’d been forgetting quite a lot, lately.

“I doubt I _can_ forget,” Ravus said. “Not here.”

Prompto reached for his hand, but a door opened on the other end of the room, and Ravus turned with a short, terse bow. A young man Prompto’s age stood in the doorway, dark hair obscuring his brows, dressed all in Lucian black. 

“Prince Noctis,” Ravus said, and the disdain in his voice was thick enough to make Prompto look at him in shock. “How surprising to see you take an interest in matters of state.”

Prince Noctis? Prompto straightened, and the whispered sounds of his last orders ran through his mind.

 _Greet him,_ they said.

“Hey.” 

Prince Noctis walked into the room, and the Crownsguard at the door shifted to attention. He extended a hand to Prompto.

“I heard your speech,” he said. “The throne room kind of freaks me out, too.”

 _Befriend him,_ breathed the voice that had sent him there, the man who had gripped Prompto’s shoulders and spoken the words that would bind him to obedience. 

“It’s _huge,_ ” Prompto said. He took the prince’s hand. “I’m not really used to talking to all those people, you know? Dad kept me kind of cut off.”

“You’re telling me,” Noctis said. He was wary, Prompto could tell, but there was a hint of fellow-feeling there, something human and weak and too compassionate. He was like Ravus with all the walls stripped off, all the arrogance and fragile attempts at hiding his true self thrown to the side. 

“If things go right,” Prompto said, “I think the two of us are gonna be seeing a lot of each other.”

 _Befriend him,_ his creator, Ardyn Izunia, had said, before releasing Prompto onto the train platform. _Let him take you into his confidence._

“So you can call me Prompto, if you want,” he said, letting go of Noctis’ hand. “Or Prom. It’s what my friends call me.” He jerked his head towards Ravus, who frowned.

_Bring him to Altissia, where his dear, beloved Lady Lunafreya is waiting._

“Alright,” Noctis said. He smiled, tentative and small. “Then you can call me Noct.”

_And then, when you have found her, you are to take this, dear Prompto, and stab her through her bitch’s heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How is this supposed to be a HAPPY ENDING fic, Fae?"
> 
> ha  
> ha ha ha ha ha


	4. On the Road

Noct wasn’t sure what to make of the prince of Niflheim. 

On one hand, he didn't act much like royalty. He had a self-deprecating humor and an open, unguarded face that spelled disaster for diplomacy—Ignis had confided in Noct that during the talks regarding the peace accord, Prompto had responded to the news that Luna was to be sent to Altissia under guard with a wide-eyed look to Lord Ravus and a cry of, "But she's getting married! Why are we treating her like a—" At which point Lord Ravus stood stiffly and asked for a brief recess. Ignis had seen them both standing together at the side of the room, Prompto gesturing widely as Ravus tried to convince him to keep his voice down. 

"His Imperial Highness has to be excused for the rest of the talks," Ignis had said, as he took out a new set of tarts from the oven that afternoon. "In all honesty, Noctis, I believe the boy is as much in the dark on the fine details of the treaty as we are."

So Noct, Ignis, and Gladio became Prompto's unofficial guides during his short stay in the Citadel. Prompto watched over Noct's shoulder as they played Kings Knight, nearly cried when he found out about the private chocobo stables out back, and spent so much time in the gardens, smiling up at the ornamental plums and the rows of cherry trees, that Noct had to wonder if the rumors of him being kept hidden in an Imperial keep were true. 

"It's just so green here," Prompto said, when Noct found him wandering off for what felt like the twentieth time. "Ever since Shiva was murdered, Gralea's been pretty much ice-central."

And there was the problem, really. Prompto could be cheerful to a fault, quick to laugh and deeply invested in the well-being of the palace chocobos, but then he'd let slip a line like _that,_ and Noct would be back to square one. Most of the Empire, Noct knew, treated the Glacian's death like a natural disaster, referring to the event as something inevitable and out of their control. But Prompto called it _murder._

For a man whose father had made it his point in life to take the power of the Astrals as his own, Prompto was surprisingly fond of the gods. 

"They aren't _really_ gods, I know," he said, when Noct asked. "But they're part of the... the natural order, I guess. It's nice to know they're around." 

"They won't be for long if your dad has anything to say about it," Noct pointed out, unable to help himself. Prompto grimaced. 

"Yeah, well, he thinks life is something he can _control,_ " Prompto said, and his fingers clenched in his lap, knuckles going white. Noct made a point not to bring up the subject again, but he did tell Ignis, who raised his eyebrows and remained silent and thoughtful through much of the afternoon. 

“We’ll have to keep an eye on him,” he said at last, as he, Noct, and Gladio cleared out Noct’s apartment the night before their trip to the Quay. “Even if he is what he appears to be, he’s still the son of the emperor. Take care not to grow too fond.”

 

\---

 

Prompto stood at the foot of the Citadel steps, watching Noctis and his retainers speak to the king as their car growled softly to itself at the curb. King Regis addressed them with fondness, a soft look in his eyes that Prompto had seen himself once or twice, when he was forced to sit in on deliberations on the treaty. It made him think of his own father, when he had been newly made and was deemed useful enough to have around. The emperor had treated each new discovery of Prompto’s as a victory, and Prompto had snuck off more than once to tell Ravus how he’d _smiled_ this time, or touched his hand, or called him by name. How it was getting better, how he was wanted.

It hadn’t lasted, of course. Prompto wondered if it would have been different if he’d been made younger at the start, treated like a human instead of a doll. 

“Not too late to come with,” Prompto said. He leaned close, letting his hand brush the edge of Ravus’ sleeve. “I could use a friend.”

“You and the _prince_ are getting along well,” Ravus said. It was true, in a way. Prompto kept bumping into Noct everywhere he went, these days. The prince was kind, maybe a little awkward, and he kept trying to get Prompto to play some sort of phone app with him. He gazed up at him now, watching him bow to his father and smirk at a private joke.

“It’s not the same,” Prompto said. “He doesn’t know me like you do.”

“And he can’t.” Ravus’ voice was firm. Prompto glanced away, and felt gloved fingers touch his chin. “Prom—Highness. You know how dangerous it can be, letting the son of your enemy come too close.”

“He’s not _my_ enemy,” Prompto pointed out. “He’s not even yours.”

Ravus said nothing. Prompto grabbed his wrist, tugging it down, and just for a breath, their fingers locked together. “Ravus,” he said. “About Altissia. I think you should come. If you’re there, maybe I—“

“Time to hit the road, sunshine,” said a low, gruff voice from behind them. Ravus dropped Prompto’s hand, and Prompto hurriedly smoothed out his vest. Gladiolus Amicitia, Prince Noctis’ bodyguard (called _shield,_ Prompto remembered, like he wasn’t even a _person_ ) winked at Prompto as he passed, making the younger man blush and Lord Ravus scowl. Prompto smiled at him warily before turning back to Ravus.

“Come to Altissia anyways,” he said. 

“We’ll see,” Ravus said, looking up to the steps of the Citadel, where King Regis stood, watchful and still. Ravus lifted a hand to brush stray hairs from Prompto’s eyes, saw Prince Noctis eyeing them critically, and pulled away. “Stay safe on the road, Prompto.”

He didn’t even wait to see Prompto get in the car. He turned on his heel, stalking past the king of Lucis with the barest of nods, his white jacket flapping in an unseasonable wind. Prompto sat up on his knees in his seat to watch his small form disappear in the overwhelming grey and white of the Citadel, ignoring the looks that his new companions gave each other as they drove towards the main entrance of Insomnia. 

Towards Altissia. 

Prompto felt the knife sheathed at his back pressing him down like an iron weight. He looked to Prince Noctis, who was sitting up on the back of his seat, one leg drawn to his chest. 

“So,” he said, in what he hoped was a cheerful voice. “Excited about meeting Lunafreya?”

 

\---

 

Being out in the open air after years of living in cold, steel fortresses was starting to have an effect on Prompto. His dreams shifted, changing from uncertain images of leaf and bough to a relentless maelstrom of wings, of beak and talon and sharp, liquid eyes. He woke to the sound of the wind hitting the tent he shared with Prince Noctis and his retainers, and would climb out into the dark and try to make sense of it all. Sometimes, he had to touch his arms, his fingers, reminding himself that his skin was smooth and unmarred by feathers, his hands softer than the supple twigs of oak and meadowsweet. He caught himself scanning the horizon for the grey light of pre-dawn, and strained his eyes to see the body of the goddess in the sun that turned the sky over Leide a bright and brilliant purple. 

He was losing himself. Even as he joked with Noct, helped Ignis cook breakfast, or sat on Gladio’s back and watched in awe as the man continued his push-ups like his weight was nothing, Prompto could feel the prince of Niflheim slipping away. He found himself thinking of them as he would have before he was made, laughing too quickly at their jokes, smiling too wide when they spoke to each other as old friends would. He clung to his camera like a lifeline, then, letting it ground him in the world of two-legged creatures, trying to shake off the feeling that he was moving too fast, being too loud, too bold. 

The morning Ignis caught the impression of flowers under the skin beneath his armband, Prompto nearly broke. 

“Bad choice of tattoo,” Prompto said, tugging his band down a little to cover the patch of skin. He pressed his fingers down, and felt the shift of blossoms. “I keep meaning to have it removed.”

“Nothing wrong with flowers,” Gladio had said, with a smile Prompto wasn’t sure he deserved. 

Prompto felt shaky and thrown off-center the rest of the morning. He closed his eyes once on the winding path to the Quay, and for a terrifying moment thought he could feel his skin twisting out of true, blossoms and feathers and leaf mold breaking free from the spells that held him together. He opened his eyes with a jerk to find the vast ocean laid out before him like a shimmering blanket on the sand. 

Noct bumped Prompto in the side with an elbow as they got out of the car, pointing to a fishing dock. “You guys fish in Niflheim?” he asked. 

“I think so,” Prompto said. “You need, uh, I think you need a pick, or a drill. For the ice,” he added, when Noct gave him a strange look. 

“Wow, no,” Noct told him. “That’s not fishing. Before we do the whole…” he glanced to the side, waving his hand, “you know…”

“The wedding thing?” Prompto asked, grinning. Noct shrugged.

“Yeah. Before that, I need to show you how it’s really done.”

“Gods, don’t get him started,” Gladio said, and Noct tried to smack him on the arm as he passed. Prompto let Noct wrap an arm around his shoulder as they headed down the boardwalk towards the dock, and felt that shift in balance again, a tug between the man he’d become and the magic that threatened to push out of his skin at every turn.

And so, when Ardyn Izunia passed them by on the steps to the restaurant, Prompto stopped, fell out of Noct’s hold, and stared.

“Chancellor Izunia,” he said, and the others paused, going tense. “What are _you_ doing in _Galdin_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never trust a bunch of flowers in a suit to keep state secrets, kids.


End file.
